“We’d better split up,” he said to Annie. “I’ll try the MOJO offices and you see if you can get any luck with the girl who left her work number. See if there’s anything else you can find around the flat that might tell us anything about him, too, and arrange to have the files and stuff taken up to Eastvale. I’ll take the tube and leave you the driver.”

“Okay,” said Annie. “Where shall we meet up?”

Banks named an Italian restaurant in Soho, one he was sure they hadn’t been to together before, so it held no memories for them. They’d have to take a taxi or the tube back to their hotel, which was some distance away, just off Cromwell Road, not too far from the magnificent Natural History Museum. It was clean, they had been assured, and unlikely to break the tight police budget. As Annie busied herself listening to Barber’s phone messages again, Banks left the flat and headed for the underground.

Melanie Wright dabbed at her cheeks and apologized to Annie for the second time. They were sitting in a Starbucks near the Embankment, not far from where Melanie worked as an estate agent. She said she could take a break when Annie called, but when she found out about Nick Barber’s murder, she got upset and her boss told her she could take the rest of the afternoon off. If Nick had a “type,” then Annie was at a loss to know what it was. Kelly Soames was gamine, pale and rather naive, whereas Melanie was shapely, tanned and sophisticated. Perhaps the only similarities were that both were a few years younger than him, and both were blondes.

“Nick never let anyone get really close to him,” Melanie said over a Frappuccino, “but that was okay. I mean, I’m only twenty-four. I’m not ready to get married yet. Or even to live with someone, for that matter. I’ve got a nice flat in Chelsea I share with a girlfriend, and we get on really well and give each other lots of space.”

“But you did go out with Nick?”

“Yes. We’d been seeing one another for a year or so now, on and off. I mean, we weren’t exclusive or anything. We weren’t even what you’d call a couple, really. But we had fun. Nick was fun to be with, most of the time.”

“What do you mean, most of the time?”

“Oh, he could be a bit of a bore when he got on his hobbyhorse. That’s all. I mean, I wasn’t even born when the bloody sixties happened. It wasn’t my fault. Can’t stand the music, either.”

“So you didn’t share his enthusiasm?”

“Nobody could. It was more than an enthusiasm with him. I mean, I know this sounds weird, because he was really cool and I got to meet all sorts of bands and stuff – I mean, we even had a drink with Jimmy Page once at some awards do. Can you believe it? Jimmy Page! Even I know who he is. But even though it all sounds really cool and everything, being a rock writer and meeting famous people, when you get right down to it, it’s a bit like having any kind of all-consuming hobby, isn’t it. I mean, it could have been train-spotting, or computers or something.”

“Are you saying Nick was a bit of a nerd?”

“In some ways. Of course, there was more to him than that, or I wouldn’t have hung around. Nerds aren’t my type.”

“It wasn’t just for the bands, then?”

She shot Annie a sharp, disapproving glance. “No. I’m not like that, either. We really had fun, me and Nick. I can’t believe he’s gone. I’ll miss him so much.” She dabbed at her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Melanie,” said Annie. “I don’t mean to be insensitive or anything, but in this job you tend to get a bit cynical. When was the last time you saw Nick?”

“It must have been about two weeks ago, a bit over.”

“What did you do?”

She gave Annie a look. “What do you think we did?”

“Before that.”

“We had dinner.”

“At his place?”

“Yeah. He was a fair chef. Liked watching all those cooking programs on TV. Can’t stand them myself. You ask me what I can make, and I say reservations.”

Annie had heard it before, but she laughed anyway. “Was there anything different about him?”

Melanie thought for a moment, frowning, then she said, “It was just a feeling I got, really. I mean, I’d been around him before when he was pitching for a feature. It always mattered to him – I mean, he loved it – but this time, he was sort of anxious. I don’t think he’d got the green light yet.”

“Why do you think he was anxious? That he wouldn’t get the assignment?”

“Maybe it was partly that, but I think it was more that it was personal.”

“Personal?”

“Yeah. Don’t ask me why. I mean, Nick was fanatical about all his projects, and secretive about the details, but I got the sense that this one was a little more personal for him.”

“Did he tell you what, or who, he was working on?”

“No. But he never did. I don’t know if he thought I’d tell someone else who’d get to it first, but, like I said, he was always secretive until he’d finished. Used to disappear for weeks on end. Never told me where he was going. Not that he had any obligation to, mind you. I mean, it’s not like we were joined at the hip or anything.”

“Did he say anything at all about it?”

“Just once, that last night.” She gave a little laugh. “It was a funny sort of thing to say. He said it was a very juicy story and it had everything, including murder.”

“Murder? He actually said that?”

Melanie started crying again. “Yes,” she said. “But I didn’t think he meant his own.”

Monday, 15th September, 1969

The Mad Hatters, Enderby explained as he negotiated the winding country roads with seeming ease, consisted of five members: Terry Watson on rhythm guitar and vocals, Vic Greaves on keyboards and backup vocals, Reg Cooper on lead guitar, Robin Merchant on bass and vocals and Adrian Pritchard on drums. They had formed about three years ago after they met at Leeds University, and so were considered a local band, though only two of them – Greaves and Cooper – actually came from Yorkshire. For the first year or so they played only gigs around the West Riding, then a London promoter happened to catch one of their shows at a Bradford pub and decided they’d fill a niche in the London scene with their unique blend of psychedelic pastoral.

“Hold on a minute,” said a frustrated Chadwick. “What on earth is ‘psychedelic pastoral’ when it’s at home?”

Enderby smiled indulgently. “Think of Alice in Wonderland or Winnie the Pooh set to rock music.”

Chadwick winced. “I’d rather not. Go on.”

“That’s about all, sir. They caught on, got bigger and bigger, and now they’ve got a best-selling LP out, and they’re hobnobbing with rock’s élite. They’re tipped for even bigger things. Roger Waters from Pink Floyd was telling me just yesterday in Rugby that he thought they’d go far.”

Chadwick was already getting tired of Enderby’s name-dropping since the weekend, and he wondered if it had been a mistake to send him down to interview the Brimleigh Festival groups who were appearing in Rugby. He hadn’t even found out anything of interest in two days, and reported that there had only been about three hundred people there. And he still hadn’t got a haircut. “What the hell does Lord Jessop have to do with this?” he asked, changing the subject. “This place does belong to him, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. He’s young, rich, a bit of a longhair himself. He likes the music, and he likes to be associated with that world. Bit of a swinger, you might say. Actually, he’s away a lot of the time, and he lets them use his house and grounds for rest and rehearsals.”

“Simple as that?”

“Yes, sir.”

Chadwick gazed out at the landscape, the valley bottom to his left where the river Swain meandered between wooded banks, and the rising slope of the daleside opposite, a haphazard pattern of drystone walls and green fields until about halfway up, where the grass turned brown and the rise ended in gray limestone outcrops along the top, marking the start of the gorse-and-heather moorland.